


A Day in the Life

by Eve_Louise (Stregatrek)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Relationship, Fluff, Greg can cook, Greg likes that about him, M/M, Mycroft likes to celebrate the little things, Mystrade Summer Exchange 2014 Edition, The Mystrade Summer Exchange, so much useless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2138217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stregatrek/pseuds/Eve_Louise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A (relatively) normal day in the life of Gregory Lestrade.<br/>In which fluff abounds and hardly anything goes amiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day in the Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spunkyexpat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spunkyexpat/gifts).



“You’re a pain in the arse,” Greg Lestrade accused, pointing his cereal spoon at the man across from him.  


“I am going to refrain from making the obvious ‘you seemed to enjoy it last night,’ joke.” Mycroft asserted, eyes sparkling laughingly at Greg over the rim of his tea cup.  


Snorting and shaking his head, Greg chased the last of his cereal determinedly around the bowl, deliberately not responding.  


“I’ll be home late tonight.” Mycroft said.  


“Now you’re just trying to get a reaction out of me. First lecturing about my showering habits, then poking fun at my marshmallow cereal- which I got for Julia, by the way, but it’s all we’ve got left- and now saying you won’t even be home until late.” He feigned annoyance.  


“My apologies, darling,” The politician stood and took his mug to the sink, stopping along the way to kiss the side of Greg’s head. “I shall bring home more cereal of the non-marshmallow variety for you.”  


“Get some with marshmallows too; if the girls come over and find I’ve eaten all their cereal I’ll never hear the end of it.” He joined Mycroft at the sink, bumping his hip into the younger man’s and putting his bowl under the faucet. Mornings were the best part of the day, he reflected, as Mycroft turned to him and nuzzled gently into his hair, lips brushing the top of his ear. They were both early risers and thus frequently had time to share a relaxed breakfast and sometimes even a mutual shower before they dressed for work. Which meant that nothing had gone wrong yet, no nations had been collapsed, no one had been murdered. Neither of them suffered at all until after they had kissed goodbye.  


Turning his head, Greg pressed his lips to Mycroft’s, and the government man kissed back leisurely, placing one hand on the counter on either side of Gregory. “I should go,” He said after a moment.  


“Mm.” Lestrade agreed reluctantly. “Me too.”  


“I shall see you tonight.”  


“You can count on it,” He winked as Mycroft stepped away. “Should I keep dinner warm for you?”  


Mycroft shrugged. “Do whatever you wish. I may be slightly late or very late; it depends on how long my Ukrainian counterpart can talk.” They made their way up the stairs together for jackets and briefcases.  


“Alright. Who knows, you might still beat me home. Never know what kind of weird case I’ll get dragged out on.” He sighed. Much as he hated to admit it, he thought he might be approaching the stage of ‘getting too old for this.’  


“If you see my brother, do ask him whether he won’t consider the Stonehenge case.”  


Greg sighed, but he was smiling. “You know he won’t.”  


“It doesn’t hurt to ask,” Mycroft shrugged into his suit jacket and bent slightly to retrieve his briefcase and umbrella.  


“It does me!” The DCI protested. “Last time we bothered him about the same case for too long he threw a spleen at me.”  


“I remember.” Mycroft chuckled and inclined his head down for one last kiss before sweeping off down the stairs and to the front door. “I shall see you tonight,”  


“Love you!” Lestrade called after him as the door shut, and began looking around for his own suit jacket as he heard the ubiquitous black car pull away. His mobile buzzed.  


_I love you as well._  


Smiling because he made Mycroft text, he shrugged into his jacket and grabbed his coat, thumping down the stairs and flipping off lights as he went.  


At the Yard, it was a comparatively slow morning. There was a triple homicide to investigate, but they had scarcely arrived at the crime scene when a man hurtled into their path, falling to his knees and confessing all. They’d taken him into custody, and Anderson promised to have the forensics to back up his confession within 24 hours. Lestrade had been left with paperwork, and Donovan with the task of informing the family- which turned out to be straightforward, too, though that particular duty could never be called easy. There was only one living relative, and she was so old that Sally reported doubting whether the old lady even remembered that she had had a son, who himself had been getting on in years. Lestrade hadn’t known what to do but sigh and go back to his paperwork.  


It seemed there were always mountains of paperwork on his desk these days, reports and requisitions and files and cold cases. Occasionally, Sherlock would come by and lift one, only to return it in the next day or so with an attached sheet of paper detailing the perpetrator (or at least a trail to catch them) and Greg would make discrete inquiries until he had probable cause. Those files then went into the ‘solved’ bin, and he dug out new cold cases for the detective. But Sherlock wasn’t in today to collect files or return them, or to throw spleens. The mounting stacks were reminding him again that his job was taking more and more of a toll on him, not just physically with all the chasing and fighting, but mentally as well. Between dealing with losses- his own and other peoples’- and the mind-numbingly repetitive paperwork, it was no wonder he hadn’t begun contemplating retirement before.  


Of course, he’d still work for a few years. And maybe stay on somehow after that; it would be hard to stop working when Mycroft seemingly never would. Granted, the government man was younger, but Greg had always been a bit competitive (or maybe stubborn was a better descriptor) and he wasn’t about to quit until he had to. He bent further over the form currently in front of him, printing extra-legibly in the allotted spaces and wondering why the hell this couldn’t all be computerized. It would be faster, at least.  


His mobile buzzed, and he dropped his pen quickly, grateful for the distraction. Maybe Sherlock had a case. Or maybe someone else needed his help. Or maybe he’d just glance at it and stick it back in his pocket to await response on his personal time, but at least he’d get to put down that fucking pen for ten seconds.  


_Don’t forget lunch. Something more substantial than a doughnut and coffee._  


Greg smiled at his screen. Mycroft had long ago stopped signing texts; even if they occasionally came in from unknown numbers it was hardly a difficult deduction to figure out who they were from. Perhaps especially when they came from unknown numbers. He shut the message and flipped over the form, standing up and stretching. It was nearly two, after all… How did Mycroft know he hadn’t eaten yet? Witchcraft.  


He locked his office and stopped at Sally’s desk only long enough to mutter, “Lunch,” and see her nod before he hurried to leave, realizing how hungry he was. Thankfully, there were several little shops to choose from. Something substantial… Pret a Manger was always good. He hurried around the corner, knowing that he had earned a lunch run but still anxious to get back to the office before someone got murdered.  


“Good afternoon, Gregory.”  


“Mycroft!” He grinned as he looked up, catching sight of his favorite person in the world leaning on an umbrella. “What are you doing here?”  


“Lunch,” The posh man shrugged with a smile of his own.  


“You don’t eat take out,” Lestrade frowned. _Not in those suits, anyway…_  


“No, but I did have a few minutes to spare.”  


The DCI’s face brightened. “You came to see me at lunch?”  


“I thought I could walk you back to the Yard, at least.”  


Greg’s smile threatened to take over his face as he pulled a sandwich and a water off the shelf in Pret. “Of course- that’d be wonderful. Thanks for coming down.”  


“It is my pleasure,” Mycroft answered, deftly paying for the food before Greg was done fumbling with his wallet.  


“Hey, you don’t have to-”  


Mycroft shut him up with a look, and Greg smiled.  


“I believe you were in a hurry to return to your office?”  


Glancing away from the beautiful man beside him as they left the shop, Greg looked down at the food in his hands as though he’d forgotten what he’d come outside for in the first place. “Right, yeah. Been a slow day. Feels like something’s going to happen at any minute.”  


“I see. Mostly paperwork, then?”  


“Yeah.” He sighed. “Dull as hell, honestly. Oh, but you know, don’t you,” He rolled his eyes with a bit of a laugh as they crossed the street, Mycroft’s umbrella swinging nonchalantly from the hand that wasn’t resting in the crook of Greg’s elbow.  


“Unfortunately, yes.”  


“How’s your day been, then?”  


“Routine. Nothing out of the ordinary to do until this afternoon… Though I do hope I will be able to return home at a reasonable hour.”  


“Hey, if you can’t, I understand. Heaven knows it won’t be the first time one of us has worked late." Greg shrugged. He didn’t have to like it, but he wasn’t about to hold it against Mycroft. It was sort of his fault for being the most important man in Britain, but one could not always anticipate the inconveniences of that title.  
Mycroft pouted at him in a way that made Greg smile, subtle enough that he would probably be the only one to notice it but still undeniably there in the slight downturns of his mouth and the way his eyebrows had dropped from their usual arch amusement. “I don’t want to be home late today.”  
The way he said it made Greg pause for a moment, throwing off his gait as they reentered New Scotland Yard. “Shit… was there something I was supposed to remember?” He looked up at Mycroft, whose smile was unobtrusive.  


“No. You have plenty of other things to remember, and in all likelihood it was not worth remembering to you. You’d done it before, meant it before.” Mycroft glanced at him with playful light in his eyes. “You may try to guess, if you wish.”  


“Shut up, you know me too well.” Greg laughed, fingers of his free hand tapping his chin. “Okay… Let’s see. It isn’t any holiday. Clearly not a birthday. The anniversary of our first date was last month, so it isn’t that. Oh, it’s going to be something sneaky.” He grinned, stumped but entertained. The lift doors closed behind them, and since they were alone in the metal box he suggested, “Is it two years since I first shagged you in the back of your car?”  
Mycroft’s face revealed his amusement like art, eyebrows rising and nose wrinkling very slightly as he smiled in that way that involved his top lip more than the bottom, showing his white teeth and making him look gloriously rebellious for an instant. “No, Gregory,” He answered, voice half an octave lower. “It is not. That is in two months and ten days.”  


“You would know,” Greg laughed as the elevator dinged and Mycroft schooled his face into the impassivity the Yard team was used to seeing. “Tell me what it is?”  
Mycroft pretended to contemplate as Greg unlocked the door to his office, checking with Sally that nothing of import had happened. “Nothing that needs your attention, sir,” She answered without properly looking up from her own stack of paperwork, but her voice was not unfriendly.  


“You have a minute?” Greg looked back at Mycroft, inclining his head toward his office. Mycroft stepped smartly through the doorway, and Greg followed, swinging the door closed with his heel and setting his food on his desk. He was actually pretty hungry, but if Mycroft had time to stay for just a moment then the food could wait.  


“I really ought to be getting back,” Mycroft told him, checking his mobile, brow furrowed. He typed a two-word answer and put it back in the pocket of his expensive suit, leaning comfortably on his umbrella.  


Lestrade shrugged his reluctant acceptance of the fact that the Empire needed Mycroft more than he did at the moment. “Fine.” He smiled. “Before you go, though- what is it?”  


Without warning, he was crowded back against his desk, warm lips against his own. Mycroft kissed him more intensely than he had done that morning, but stepped away just the same. “Today is three years since our first kiss. It may be insignificant, but-”  


“It’s not,” Greg interrupted with a smile, hands resting lightly on Mycroft’s chest. The politician’s hands settled on the DCI’s hips.  


Mycroft’s lips rested against Greg’s hair the next time he spoke, and his breath was a pleasant sensation brushing across Gregory’s scalp. “Regardless of the frivolity of the idea, I had hoped to rejoin you at home in time for dinner.”  


“Well then you’d better be there, mister,” Greg joked.  


“I will do my utmost.” He kissed Greg’s cheek swiftly and moved to the door. “Apologies in advance if I do not achieve my goal, my love.”  


“Don’t worry about it.” Greg shooed him, opening his lunch. “International incidents are more important. Besides, you could always join me for dessert.” He grinned as Mycroft shot him a look that meant he knew exactly what Lestrade was implying and was going to pay him back in kind at the first available opportunity. “See you at home,” Greg laughed as Mycroft left with a slight smile.  


Work for the rest of the afternoon involved one mildly interesting case that was over far too quickly, and two dull cases that involved far too much paperwork. Sherlock didn’t stop by for either activity, and Lestrade wondered briefly if he ought to go by 221B and check on the detective. Not that it had been long since he’d heard from him, but still… what with John married and the flat empty of people Greg considered rational adults, it was concerning to leave Sherlock alone for too long. In the end, however, he decided against it. 

Not that he didn’t care about Sherlock because of course he did, far too much really, but it wasn’t the time and it really hadn’t been very long anyway. Maybe a day or two. Heaven knew how much Sherlock could get into in two days, but… he’d seemed better, after John. With John/during John- that time was still his peak, but since the incident where Sherlock apparently shot someone, there had been no fires, no poisons, and no being arrested. These, in Lestrade’s book, counted as progress. With that in mind, he turned off the lights in his office and shut the blinds, locking the door behind him.  


It didn’t feel like a long trip home, lost as he was in the absent almost-haze brought about by a slow day at work and a night to look forward to. He drove more by memory than anything, though of course he paid attention to other drivers and road- he was a cop, after all. Conscientious, law-abiding citizen first, love-struck fool second.  


The home he shared with Mycroft no longer intimidated him. The emptiness of it when Mycroft wasn’t there used to remind him of the fact that he was an addition to it, a newcomer to the impressive expanse of Mycroft’s entire life. Now, however, he thought of it as their home- he was an addition, perhaps, but a good one. A renovation. Even without Mycroft, closing the heavy front door and turning on the lights felt like coming home. He made his way upstairs without consciously deciding to do so and looked around at their bedroom for a moment, feeling content. A faint smile replaced his absent expression as he put away his shoes and pulled off his tie, tossing his jacket over a chair to be dealt with later. Greg ambled back downstairs and into the kitchen, stopping for a moment and looking at the stainless refrigerator, considering what he could make.  
When did life get this good? He wondered, starting to assemble ingredients for baked fish. He could make that- pretty damn well actually. Mycroft liked it, at least. Life started to get this good three years ago today.  


Maybe earlier, maybe life started to get this good when he’d first met Mycroft. He’d been on a case, one that Sherlock had helped on, and shortly after the newly-clean detective had solved the case and stormed off- don’t call me unless it’s interesting, how many times do I have to tell you- an unmarked black car had rolled up and a very pretty woman had asked him to get in. Of course, he’d said no. When on a case, one simply did not get into strange cars (if one was ever going to indulge in such risky behavior, on-the-job hours were not the time). The next day, he’d gotten a note on expensive stationary requesting a meeting at his lunch break- signed only M. Greg smiled now, remembering it. He’d been mildly freaked out at the time, but once he met the dark-haired man leaning on an umbrella in broad daylight across from the Yard, Greg had been intrigued. It was fairly obvious that he was Sherlock’s brother- Mycroft Holmes? Oh, bloody hell, there cannot possibly be two of you- and he’d thanked Greg for his part in getting Sherlock clean (Mycroft himself had made two attempts before being assigned overseas) and shown up with increasing frequency until they’d somehow wound up not talking about Sherlock at all.  


It had all been very slow, timeline-wise. At the time it had felt like being swept up in some great wave and pulled completely out of the realm of normality and into some wonderland where attractive men in three piece suits were in the habit of selecting a favorite human and spoiling them beyond all reason. When Greg had gotten divorced, he’d been surprised by the expressions of support- from everyone, Donovan and John and even Sherlock to the extent that he stopped complaining when he was called in for something boring- and Mycroft most of all. He’d been taken along- for support- to lunch, to loud pubs with awful football matches, and he’d put up with all of it; Greg liked to think that the posh elder Holmes even enjoyed himself a bit. Later, Greg had been the one being taken to new places; that mad club where no one was allowed to talk, for one, and restaurants he would have thought only members of the royal family could eat at, and on what Greg considered their first proper date Mycroft had driven them himself, in a sleek little car Greg couldn’t even name that might have been custom-made.  


Fast-forward through a few months of sporadic dates and intermittent world crises and Mycroft Holmes was leaning across the back seat of his car and tugging on Greg’s tie to bring their mouths together, then leaning away impossibly fast and watching him shyly- as shy as Mycroft ever got, anyway.  


Greg smiled, remembering it all. He was becoming an utter sap, and he couldn’t bring himself to give a damn.  


Dinner was cold by the time Mycroft walked through the door, his posture shifting from impassive to tired as soon as the door closed behind him. He slipped his favorite umbrella into the stand beside the others and took a deep breath.  


“Rough day?” Greg asked sympathetically, emerging from the kitchen with two glasses of wine.  


“Please. Nothing is rough,” Greg smiled disbelievingly as he heard the implied 'nothing is rough to me, the great Mycroft Holmes', but let the posh man continue. “It was, however, very long. I am grateful to have seen you at lunch; otherwise I do not think I would have had the patience to last through the meeting I have just endured. One would think that worldwide conflict would be more interesting.”  


“One would think that.” Greg said sympathetically, offering Mycroft his glass of wine. “I’ve got dinner for you,”  


“Thank you, Gregory,” Mycroft answered, stepping close for a brief kiss before he followed Greg into the dining room.  


“Of course.” Greg answered, settling into the chair closest to Mycroft’s; despite the vastness of the table, he’d never been inclined to sit anywhere but here.  


It became quickly apparent that the relative temperature or taste of dinner didn’t matter, as they each became more and more engrossed in the other. It started fairly innocently, Lestrade pushing his bare feet against Mycroft’s expensive shoes and beginning a game of footsies that earned him a raised eyebrow and a tiny smile. He grinned back, and Mycroft set down his utensils to lean across the corner of table that separated them to claim a kiss. At which point Greg ‘borrowed’ Mycroft’s left hand and began tracing aimless patterns over it with his own left hand, which escalated into Greg abandoning his food in order to unbutton Mycroft’s cuff and extend his access to the politician’s pale skin. This, of course, led Mycroft to lose focus on his own meal and stare at his hand being explored by Greg’s fingertips, until eventually they had moved their chairs closer without either of them quite realizing it and dinner was going even colder than it had already been.  


“Maybe food’s a lost cause, eh?” Greg asked cheerfully twenty minutes after they had first sat down, his right hand wrapped in Mycroft’s hair and his left still clinging to the younger man’s left hand, the joined limbs pressed between them as they both leaned over the arms of their chairs. Their feet were entwined too, and Greg thought that this was really getting a bit ridiculous, what with the perfectly good bed right upstairs and all.  


“You may be right,” Mycroft answered, cheeks stained pink and one curl escaping from his perfect coif. “Shall we go upstairs?”  


“I thought you’d never ask.” Greg winked. He stood up, pushing his chair back and pulling Mycroft with him, tugging so that the politician found himself chest to chest with the DCI, both smiling faintly as they leaned in for another kiss.  


It was only long practice that enabled Greg to get Mycroft out of the multiple layers he insisted on wearing with anything like efficiency. His own clothes came off much more easily, and then they were both in just their pants, Greg shoving Mycroft down on the bed and following enthusiastically, climbing into the government man’s lap and leaning down for a kiss. Mycroft whined into it, arching his back and rolling his hips against Greg.  


“Impatient tonight?”  


“Mm,” Mycroft agreed, his fingernails scraping gently down Lestrade’s spine over and over, making the DCI shiver.  


“You know I’m just going to make you wait,” Greg told him, rolling his own hips teasingly.  


“You are terrible.” A slight moan accompanied the admonition, stripping it of any real power it might have had.  


Grinning, his eyes fluttering shut as Mycroft continued to roll his hips, Greg answered, “I know, but you love me anyway.”  


“Yes, I do,” Mycroft told him, pulling him down for a kiss. Greg broke it, kissing across the younger man’s jaw and down his neck, planting his hands on either side of the politician’s body so he could support his own weight as he kissed a familiar feather-light trail down Mycroft’s chest. When he reached the base of Mycroft’s ribcage, he delivered a quick bite, which escalated into several hickeys along the flare of his ribs.  


“Gregory, that hurts,” Mycroft moaned, writhing slightly at the attention. His pale skin was already littered with faint crescent-shaped bruises and teeth marks, and Greg did his best to avoid worrying at these even as he made sure that more would show up.  


“Too hard?” He looked up and checked, his voice feathery around his ragged breathing.  


“No,” Mycroft confirmed, rolling his hips desperately as Greg moved away. “Do it again.”  


“Yes sir,” Greg answered with all the cheek he could muster before returning to his previous engagement, unable to resist sucking a hickey into the slight hollow of Mycroft’s hip. The politician’s head pressed into the pillow and his mouth opened soundlessly as he squirmed, trying for more contact.  


Obligingly, Greg pressed himself even closer as he tried to trace patterns on Mycroft’s chest, hands stretched above his head as he kissed and bit at the politician’s stomach. Mycroft’s hands were in constant motion, in Greg’s hair one moment, on his shoulders, splaying across his neck, twitching as he tried not to push too hard. This was a familiar dance, and yet somehow the steps never became any less exhilarating. Greg’s breath came in pants and gasps as he worried Mycroft’s flesh between his teeth, making the younger man squirm again with a low moan that came from deep in his chest.  


“Enjoying yourself?” Greg asked playfully.  


A broken moan was all the answer he got for a moment. “Nngh- Mmhmm. And you?”  


“Absolutely.” He dropped a light kiss midway between Mycroft’s ribcage and navel. “Happy anniversary.”


End file.
